


Caught in the Silence

by Doctorinblue



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Henry Blake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctorinblue/pseuds/Doctorinblue
Summary: Henry's plane went down, taking a piece of each of them with it





	1. Chapter 1

Henry is gone.

Of course, he'd been gone before, on a plane, racing home to two beautiful little girls and a son he'd never met. But that one couldn't compare to this hellish version. No phone call could reach Henry now, no letter would ever find his hands - not that it had stopped Hawkeye from drunkenly penning a few (ranging from rage to desperate pleading that it all would turn out to be a mistake).

Hawkeye tips the last of his drink into his mouth. The thought of tomorrow's R&R is the only thing keeping his engine sputtering along. He's running on only fumes now. Glancing at Trapper, he wishes, once again, they both could have been granted the time off - that the unit could spare them. But Henry...Henry made three down, and Frank remained a perpetual handicap.

Hawkeye is just drunk enough, or just sober enough, to understand. And he's just selfish enough to take the pass and run. 

He knows better than to question any bit of luck in the middle of hell. He remained silent when Radar pushed the pass into his hand, had wondered for just a moment if maybe Frank did have a heart somewhere in that pasty little chest of his. Probably he had Radar to thank for it though. Probably that pass had been slipped in with some paperwork.

Probably Radar had saved his life. 

Hawkeye groans and looks down into his empty glass. Time is crawling by. No, slower than crawling. The hours since Radar's announcement have doubled in length. He'll never wish for bodies, but he sure wishes for something to do -anything to fill the time until he can fill the time somewhere else.

Isn't that how he's made it this far anyway?

"Here," Trapper says, refilling the glass and Hawkeye doesn't have the heart to stop him, even if his liver called mercy two drinks ago.

It keeps Trapper moving, keeps him from retreating to somewhere Hawkeye can't reach.

Outside of a few muttered comments, they've been sitting silently in the swamp, heartbroken and drunk since they finished that last surgery.

_No survivors._

It echoes in his head even now. Even when gin should have long since washed it all away, rendered him barely able to recall his own name, let alone Henry's. He still remembers Henry. And it still hurts like hell. 

No survivors. 

Hawkeye had made the call to confirm, against Trapper's protest, with Radar's full blessing. There had to be a mistake. There had to be one survivor. Henry couldn't really be gone. Right?

Wrong.

Hawkeye sinks farther back into his chair, breathing in deeply. He can almost smell Henry's absence and if he didn't have Trapper here now - if it had been him instead - Hawkeye would have lost himself. Gone. Not like Henry, but just as absolute.

Trapper stands, tips the last of his drink into his mouth. He's sloshed, they both know it, but he yanks his shirt on and stands up straighter. Hawkeye sees him wobble, finishes the last of his drink silently. What can he say? What is there to say?

"I've got a date," Trapper says, and he's out the door without looking back.

Hawkeye's watches him go and the silence grows another six feet. 

A date.

Probably Hawkeye could do the same. There would be warm arms, someone else who couldn't handle the empty and they'd spend a little time trying to make shattered pieces into something that resembled whole. He doesn't want to, though. He wants to hurt. The only way Hawkeye knows to honor Henry is with agony. And today, he's honoring him more than he ever has.

Radar knocks and the door is opened. He steps in, hands curled around a tray of food and Hawkeye wants to protest, but he hasn't actually made it to the mess tent in at least a day. All the homemade gin is eating a hole right through his stomach, and he knows he should care, but if the Army doesn't he can't bring himself too either.

"Sir," Radar says.

Hawkeye swallows and blinks a few times until Radar clears again. He's upright, stone cold sober, and as lost as Hawkeye has ever seen. Henry had been a father to him. They had never said it, not out loud, but he knew. Everyone knew. Radar was a first and second son to Henry. Blood meant nothing, and love meant everything and Radar should be the one drunk and clinging to the only book Henry had left behind in his office.

Instead, Radar's bringing him food that had been lukewarm at its peak. He's settling the tray over his lap whether Hawkeye wants it or not. He doesn't. He'll eat it all.

"Thanks," he mutters.

Radar nods and heads for the door and the action seems to rip Hawkeye open inside out. He wants to reach out, yank Radar back to him - wants to do his job and heal. Maybe there's still hope for Radar, even if he's lost all of his own.

"Radar," he says, and Radar jerks to a stop, seems to teeter.

When did Radar last sleep? Or eat? Hawkeye's supposed to be the one watching, the one taking care of Radar- taking care of the camp. Frank's sure as hell not going to do it.

"Sit," he says, nodding to the bed. 

Radar shuffles back and slides limply to the cot. Frank will likely wander by in a few minutes, order Radar to do this or that, and tell Hawkeye to put some pants on. But it'll lack its usual bite because even Frank can't pretend they didn't all lose a part of themselves when that plane went down. Even if that part wasn't one Frank especially liked. A hole always felt like a hole.

Radar exhales, hands curled on knees, and Hawkeye is at a loss for words. He shoves something into his mouth. It tastes a little like meat and a lot like nothing. It hit his stomach like a spam anvil, but he shoves in a second bite to reassure Radar he is still a somewhat functional version of the man Radar knows.

He glances over at him.

_People die, Radar. It's war._

He doesn't say it of course. No matter how many times he's told it to himself. Or how many times he's repeated Henry's gentle words about rules and doctors, and Hawkeye would be a lousy god, but if he were one, Henry would be sitting on his front porch right about now. If he were one, Radar's whole world wouldn't have been grounded into the Korean dust and blown away with the first strong wind.

People die, Radar. 

He swallows the words. He buries them. 

"Do you think he's okay?" Radar asks. 

Hawkeye looks over at him. The question is so much younger than Radar's actual years, and if he could bottle what's left of Radar's innocence he'd keep it safe. He'd tuck it under his bed, hide it in his footlocker, return it to him at the end of the war so he had something good left to take home.

"Sure he is," Hawkeye says, his eyes darting up. Radar's eyes follow. "He's okay, Radar."

Radar nods and leans against the head of Hawkeye's bed his eyes blinking slowly.

Hawkeye's head swarms with memories.

"Did I ever tell you about the first time Henry took me golfing?" Hawkeye asks.

It's the first time he's said his name aloud since he left, and it hurts exactly as much as Hawkeye had imagined.

Radar shakes his head, and Hawkeye talks (he's always been so good at it) and for just a moment he's back there. Henry's laughter is in his ears, his heart is thumping wildly in his chest from the newness of it all. The club is in his hand, the mine explodes in the distance, and hell, Henry had been so new too. Henry...Henry. The whole memory is him, everything about that moment was him, and Hawkeye didn't even notice at the time.

Henry had saved him. Not in the same way Trapper had, but he had done it all the same. Time and time again he had watched Hawkeye teeter the edge, only to pull him back to safety. Or what qualified for it here. And Hawkeye had never bothered to notice.

It's funny what a little death did for perspective. 

Hawkeye glances at Radar. Asleep. Eyes shut, half off the bed, and for the first time in days, Hawkeye wants to move. He slips the tray to the floor, shifts up out his chair. His head protests, but he lifts Radar's legs onto his cot and pulls the blanket up to his chin, gently removes the glasses from his face. 

He promises to stop drinking. No, that's a lie. He promises to go back to drinking a pre-Henry's death amount. He'll pull himself together. Not for Frank, or Hot Lips, not even for Henry. But for the ones he left behind. He'll come back from R&R the Hawkeye he'd been before. He swears it to Radar, to Henry, wherever he ended up. (And Hawkeye's never been much into the idea of an actual Heaven or Hell but Henry Blake sure as hell better be in Heaven).

Hawkeye collapses onto Trappers bunk, breathes in the smell of soap and dirt and familiarity.

He gives Radar a final look. 

_People die, Radar. But not us. Not now. I promise._

Hawkeye closes his eyes, and lets the gin mask the burning and gaping wound inside him. It will heal. He'll just always have a scar that looks like a man he once knew.


	2. The Bad Before the Worse

Radar pushes the file back into the cabinet, glances over his shoulder. All is calm at the moment, but he keeps losing himself in forgetting and letting people (majors) sneak up on him. He shuts the drawer as quietly as the old metal will allow. Holding his breath, he waits, certain that the movement will bring Major Burns back. That Radar will be on his radar again.

The last time he'd seen Major Burns he'd been disappearing into Major Houlihan's tent again. The camp could have a few minutes peace at least. He could catch his breath. He feels like he's always running, trying to keep up while being chased. Everything has changed so much in the last couple days. Everything is orders now. And waking up early. It's all marching and saluting and Radar still does his job, but only because his hands haven't figured out how to not follow orders.

Radar minds all that a lot less than he minds seeing someone else behind Colonel Blake's desk. The same desk. In the same spot. In the same office. Nothing else will ever be the same. He runs his fingers along the edge and Major Burns will snap at him if he sees, but Radar can't help himself. He knows every inch of it like he knows the lines on his mother's face. Swallowing, he blinks and shoves fingers under his glasses to swipe both eyes at once.

It hurts. Too much - like breaking all the bones in his body all at once. His own words come pouring out in his nightmares (he sees the plane go down) when he's allowed to sleep long enough to dream. He's written home. A long and slow letter he might not ever send because he doesn't want his mother to worry. Mostly, though, because he doesn't know how to put the pain into words anyone can understand unless they met Colonel Blake. It's hard to know what losing a person feels like if you never had them in the first place.

Radar pushes the door open, leaves the office, then the building. He's still searching for something he knows he'll never find. He moves away from Colonel Blake's tent (not his now) as if the flaps might burn his skin. Everything about it has changed. It's just a home where he doesn't belong any longer, a foreign place someone else moved into. 

He doesn't say it of course. Not to anyone. He hasn't been saying a lot these last few days, the words bubbling up and then losing all their fizz. His whole body has lost all its fizz. The Swamp is the only place that still calls to him, and he finds himself standing outside its door without giving his feet clear directions.

Hawkeye and Trapper still feel like home. If anyone misses Colonel Blake as much as he does, he knows it's them. Radar freezes outside the door. He wants to go in. He needs it - to do something, anything, that isn't that growing list of chores on his desk. What he really wants, no matter how ashamed it makes him, is to spend time with the two people who feel just as ripped open as he does.

He breathes in deeply. Probably they won't mind him coming in. They've been so kind, haven't even teased him in days. Not since...

Everything has to go back to normal. Radar knows it will. It'll happen when they're not looking. They'll forget their heart is shattered for a minute. Then a few minutes. Then a whole day will go by. And Colonel Blake will be a memory, a conversation, not man anymore but monument. 

He doesn't know when, but he knows it's not today. 

"Just come in, Radar," Hawkeye shouts.

Radar jumps. He pulls the swamp door, steps inside, and lets it close behind him. It stirs up the dust, fans it out in the sunlight. Hawkeye looks over. He's packing. For R&R. Radar wishes he could have given everyone a pass, written one out for himself, but Hawkeye seems to need it the most. He seems to carry more than anyone else around here, like he holds up the camp. Maybe, in his own way, he sort of does - in the same way Radar knows (with a silent bit of pride) that Radar is the one that keeps it running. Or did, anyway.

"Sit, Radar?" 

Radar sits. There is no thought. Sit, Radar. File this, Radar. Be good, Radar. And he's trying. He's trying so hard to measure up to the giants he's shadowing.

Hawkeye looks up from his clothes, hands running over them instead of shoving them into the bag. He's sober today at least. Or soberer. He's standing upright and the smell of gin isn't the only smell in the tent. Hawkeye's showered, hair still damp and clinging to his head.

Radar swallows. 

"Trapper hasn't made it back from his date," Hawkeye says, and Radar glances over, the bed still unmade from where Hawkeye had occupied it the day before. 

He gets up at once, straightens it. Major Burns will see. He'll be upset with Hawkeye and Hawkeye will be upset with him, and Radar can't handle another fight. Colonel Blake isn't here to break it apart anymore, and he's not enough to keep the peace.

"Don't, Radar," Hawkeye says on a sigh. 

He freezes, hands curling into the blankets.

"Sit, Radar" Hawkeye says, so soft and gentle that Radar wants to give in this time. 

He settles back into the chair, stares at his knees. 

"I'll bring you something back," Hawkeye offers. "Anything."

Can it be Colonel Blake, he nearly asks. 

His dad is the only thing he wants back. The one who loved him through those first few days in Korea, through the worst nights of his life. Radar glances at Hawkeye. He's seen him perform miracles, but even he can't bring Colonel Blake back to life. He can't bring him home.

Hawkeye pauses as if he's the mind reader now, and the packing stops. He sits on the edge of his cot, gives Radar an understanding look and reaches out to touch his shoulder. Radar doesn't understand why the action causes his eyes to blur, that lump to reappear in his throat. He tries to breathe through it, but Hawkeye squeezes and his vow not to cry breaks as he does.

"Me too," Hawkeye whispers and pulls him forward. 

His face presses into Hawkeye shirt and he's more than a little uncomfortable with the prolonged contact, but he's a whole lot less uncomfortable than crying where anyone could see - than if Hawkeye stopped his barely-there hold. He's strong and solid, and Radar's trying to pull himself together while Hawkeye stands guard between the world and the emotions he's can't control.

"It's not fair," he says at last.

Swallowing that last hiccup of a sob, he pushes himself away from Hawkeye who politely ignores being used as a human tissue. He doesn't even tell Radar that war isn't fair, even though he probably should.  
Radar wipes his face with both hands and sits back into the chair.

Hawkeye's hand returns to his lap, curls up. Radar can feel his emotions as sure as he feels his own. Anger and confusion, rage and desperation. And it's all too much for one body to feel if Radar gets an opinion.

"You'll be okay while I'm gone?" Hawkeye finally asks.

Radar nods. What choice is there? He'll write a few more letters. He might even send one. The ones to Colonel Blake he'll keep hidden, tucked away. He has to believe he knows the words anyway, wherever he is. Radar will tend to his pets, the ones Major Burns still allows. The ones he knows about.

It's only a few days. Trapper will still be here. They both know it. And Radar knows how to keep his feet moving, even when his heart is standing still. 

"I got some time," Hawkeye says. "Let's get lunch."

He hauls Radar up, and Radar doesn't protest. He follows Hawkeye out of the Swamp and into the mess tent and people are talking today. There has been a hush for too long, as if keeping silent might make the news change. 

He hears laughter. It makes him angry. It lets him breathe. A minute. Someone has found their minute. He sits beside Hawkeye and Hawkeye rolls out another story, and Radar knows this one, but he laughs anyway, and it almost passes him by that for just a few moments he's forgotten too. And he wants to hate himself for letting it happen, but he knows Colonel Blake would want it.

He looks up and can almost imagine him sitting across from him. A cup of coffee in his hand and lures hanging freely from his hat. Smiling. He can see it so clearly. And it takes his breath away.  
He's got to get a jeep for Hawkeye. He's got to clean the office again; he's got animals to feed and a tent to clean. Probably a few dozen other things need his attention, but he just watches the image until it fades. Hawkeye taps his arm and he stands at once. 

"Goodbye, Dad," he whispers, and follows Hawkeye out of the tent. 

A minute. 

He's found his minute. 

He'll survive.


End file.
